


SLEEPLESS NIGHT[S]

by YOURELIKECOCAINE



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Trigger warning: Eating disorder, elounor because w.e it's not really explicity stated anyway, haroline because i just love that ship ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YOURELIKECOCAINE/pseuds/YOURELIKECOCAINE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Zayn's had too many sleepless nights; and Liam's always just below the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SLEEPLESS NIGHT[S]

**Author's Note:**

> doezayn @ tumblr 
> 
> started on vacation; finished months later. i have a love-hate relationship with this story ok? ok.
> 
> (also, formatting's a fucking BITCH when you start a story on your iphone notes and finish it in google docs, so i apologize so much for all the weird spaces and indents near the end, but this thing is 30 pages long and it'd take approx. 1 to 2 hours to fix all of that omg)

Zayn never really thought it was a problem until his mum presses a hand to his shoulder and says to him, softly, "Zayn, love, have you been well as of late?"

 

And, blinking, Zayn loosens his grip on the mop and gives her an uncertain look, appears taken aback. "Yeah? Why?"

 

His mum gives him an unrecognizable expression, just shakes her head and removes her hand, takes a short pause before telling him, "Well — you seem to be sort of, of _sad_ this year."

 

Zayn can't stop thinking of what he was told for days, weeks after the fact. After Zayn dismissed it instantly, his mum left the topic alone for good — but it's already been implanted into his brain, that he's been _sad_ this year.

 

He never likes to rest at nights, prefers to do things more productive with his time until he crashes, but that's a Zayn thing, a _him_ thing. That can't constitute to sadness, to feeling unwell, so Zayn wonders if it must be something else that gives air that he's down. That he's not himself. He never musters the courage to ask his mum what it is, and so the chance to do so long passes them.

 

Then it's fall again, and he's got his things packed and in the trunk of his car when his mum holds him close to her and asks him to please, for the love of God, take care of himself. Zayn holds her back, doesn't ask what she means by that, either, because he feels like this, also, isn't the chance to do so. It'll never be the chance to question how she feels, how she knows something about him that he doesn't.

 

Zayn rents a flat right across from campus, snags his usual job at one of the women's clothing stores down in the city. He spends the days just before university starts up again gathering funds to uphold his flat and making sure he has all the materials he needs for a good year, a productive year.

 

This will be better than freshman year, Zayn says to himself the morning before his first lecture. This will be better than before.

 

•

 

His mum worries in other ways, after that. She phones him on down weekends to express her concerns about his independence, telling him, "I don't like how you're there in that flat, off by yourself, love." She sends him a bit of money a month, sometimes even ships off gifts.

 

Most of them are candies — the chocolate kind, with peanut butter or vanilla inside. Zayn keeps them in an unmarked box in his closet, tucked into the corner to be safely stored. He always sends thank you letters in return, tells her the taste makes him nostalgic.

 

Those were childhood candies, them. His mum is always glad to hear it.

 

•

 

Zayn meets Harry again that school year before anyone else; he finds him at the uni cafe, chatting up that lovely bird Caroline, and Harry is so rejoiced to see him that he glides off mid-sentence, speed-walks across campus towards Zayn with his newly-grown legs. He's all limbs, slumped shoulders, and thick heels, now. Little Harry's grown up. Zayn's a tad more surprised than he gives off.

 

"Zayn, wow," Harry coos like a nineteen-fifties woman in her favorite Sunday dress, "Look at how you've grown." It's ironic, and Zayn bites back a laugh while Harry wraps him in a long-limbed embrace right in the middle of student union.

 

"You as well," Zayn says into his shoulder. Harry's so big, but one thing he's been good at is making himself so much smaller in comparison to even the tiniest man. "A year has been good on you, yeah?"

 

"Mhm," says Harry enthusiastically. He pulls back, holds Zayn by the shoulders to give him a good look. "But you — wow, Zayn — you've gotten thinner and fit. Very fit."

 

"Yeah?" answers Zayn, unphased. Anyone else and Zayn would've suspected unclean intentions. But, Harry Styles. No one else. "Puberty has finally touched me, then."

 

"Yeah," Harry says, cheerfully. "Now, come on, then; you've got to meet Caroline!" He doesn't wait for permission, just slings an arm over Zayn's shoulders and guides him back to the cafe.

 

Caroline is waiting patiently, there. A warm smile graces her lovely, lovely face, and her short haircut gleams golden brown as she extends a hand and watches as Zayn kisses it. "Malik," she greets with a purr. "A pleasure."

 

"You've grown more beautiful since we last met," Zayn returns a greeting. "Younger. Perhaps Harry's youth is rubbing off on you."

 

"Genetics," says Caroline easy-heartedly.

 

Harry drops back into his seat, reaches over to cover Caroline's free hand with his own. Her arm candy gleams as his thumb passes over her knuckles, lets light reflect off it. Zayn's never seen a more lovely couple — and this is a couple that has never been.

 

"Stay and chat, won't you?" pleads Harry, long-lashed eyes wet. "We have a lot to catch up on."

 

"We can order some biscuits, have some tea, and Harry can tell you all about his trip to the Bahamas," insists Caroline, more of a less-insisting tone to her voice. They both look on, impatient for an answer.

 

Zayn hesitates, tightens his grip on his backpack, then finally gives his head a shake, smiling apologetically at the two. "I'm afraid I can't."

 

"And why the hell not?" Harry asks, looking as if his character has just been insulted.

 

Zayn opens his mouth to let out a flurry of pre-determined excuses, but Caroline catches on before him, turns her hand to squeeze Harry's as she tells him, "Let's give the lad some space, yeah? He's just got back from an awfully long ride."

 

Harry doesn't seem convinced, looks between Caroline and Zayn for some kind of leadway as to what he's missing from this conversation, then he mentally retracts, says a disappointed, "No problem. I'll see you very soon, Z, then."

 

"Cheers," Zayn says with a smile. "Another time. Bye." He waves and the two wave back, then he's restrapping his bag on a shoulder and treading off across student union, towards his class.

 

He's twenty minutes late, is extremely shocked to find that he doesn't care.

 

•

 

Zayn's extremely shocked to find that he doesn't care about many things anymore. Not reading, or writing, or surfing through his (once) favorite websites. Nothing makes him particularly happy, just barely pleases him, sedates him.

 

Zayn should be scared about this, but he doesn't feel that, either.

 

His mum phones at one in the morning that day, right as he's finishing up a documentary on the tricks we can play on the human brain, and when he picks up, her first words are, "And why are you still up, love? Too excited for your second day of classes?"

 

Zayn sits with his legs crossed on his bed and tucks the cell between his shoulder and ear as he clicks through the other available documentaries. "And you're not sleeping, either, mum. You must be excited for me."

 

She doesn't answer that. Speaking softly, quiet in the background of her line, she says, "I'm stopping by this weekend. Gonna bring you some naan and make a lovely dinner. You love naan. How does that sound?"

 

Zayn stops scrolling. "So soon, mum? You're missing me already?"

 

"Miss you everyday," she answers immediately. Her voice is sweet, like syrup. "Everyday, my love."

 

Zayn's chest feels tight. He can't fight it, can't fight it as he answers, "Fine. I'll see you this weekend. Surprise me on which day."

 

"As always," his mum says. "Good night. Love you."

 

Zayn starts scrolling again. "Love you, too."

 

He clicks off before she does. He always clicks off before she does.

 

•

 

Zayn comes across Louis in between classes, during his hour long lunch break. Louis' dressed in some tacky pin striped shirt, paired with slacks a little too long for his legs, so he has them rolled up just above his ankles.

 

Louis' standing in front of the campus gym with some taller, fit bloke with his muscles tight in his calves and exposed arms, hair cut just short out of a handful. Louis sees Zayn before Zayn does; with a familiar, cheerful, "Ay, Bradford boy," Louis calls Zayn over with the flick of his gold-ringed fingers.

 

God, Louis has taken tacky to a whole new level.

 

"Hey, mate," Zayn greets amicably, making sure no one's in his line of sight twice before crossing the sidewalk and approaching him. "How've you been?"

 

"Great," says Louis coolly. He and Zayn share a brief hug before Louis is motioning towards the other lad — gold rings still gleaming — and introduces him as, "Liam. Zayn. Zayn. Liam."

 

"Hello, Liam," Zayn greets with a smile. Liam returns a greeting, and their handshake is brief, brief but Liam's hand is calloused and his grip is tough, overbearing, and Zayn is feeling overwhelmed with it all, a bit.

 

"Louis keeps talking about you, this tall lad named Harry, and an Irish one named Niall, so it's very nice to meet one of these infamous mates of his," explains Liam with an award-winning smile, all big browns and white teeth. Zayn is definitely overwhelmed.

 

"Yeah?" he asks, attempting at tossing a look to Louis but failing when Liam does this thing where his smile wanes and his gaze hardens. It feels obvious and blurry, all at once.

 

"Yeah."

 

Louis claps twice, chides in with, "Well, now that that's out of the way, why don't we go get some food? Pizza, anyone?" He absently fumbles with the ring on his thumb.

 

God, if Louis wasn't already dating someone Zayn would've thought he'd be single for a good while — single with his dumb arse rings. The world works in mysterious ways.

 

"Sounds good," Zayn starts. "but I really need to just head to the bookstore and rent some textbooks. Lord knows the line will be long by now."

 

"Naw," scoffs Louis. "you just don't like us." He slings his arm around Liam's shoulders, pulls him close. "Let's go, Li; we're wasting our time with this stick in the mud bookworm."

 

"Too bad," Liam plays along, sucking his teeth playfully at Zayn's guilty expression. "It would've been nice to have more of a chat with this infamous Zayn lad." They both turn to go. "Another time, then?"

 

Zayn hesitates, realizes this is his moment to change his mind, the tell tale moment that he's met so many times and let pass. A meal and a chat with his old pal Louis and his new one Liam sounds nice — better than nice. Great.

 

Because Louis is friendly in that arsehole meets sarcastic-insults-that-are-

actually-compliments kind of way and Liam's got those warm eyes that will invite you and trap you good if you let it. And Liam's got little tufts of chest hair that poke out from underneath his tank top when it sinks too low — and Liam's skin is golden and wet, and Zayn wants to breathe him in, feel each dip on his body with the tips of his fingers.

 

Zayn lowers his gaze just as he says, "yeah, see you later," and quickly turns away from them, tells himself not to want, just to need, and disappears.

 

•

 

Zayn hates this. Hates hating himself. But he feels himself avoiding everyone for the rest of the week, catches Niall on Thursday afternoon but keeps the conversation too short because his heart wouldn't stop racing and his mind wouldn't stop telling him, _hurry before anyone else shows up_.

 

But the entire week is spent not returning calls and ducking when he sees Harry in student union, or Louis having a chat with that Liam bloke. Zayn hates hating himself for this, but he does.

 

It's Saturday evening when his mum stops by the flat. She's holding containers with nihari and naan, sided with some black tea. The food's still hot when she stumbles inside with all of it, with a dinner for five even though there's only two, and Zayn helps her carry the bags into the kitchenette, sets it down on the freshly-wiped counters.

 

"Zayn, love," she breathes softly, touches the stubble on his jaw like she's never seen him like this before, with his beard prickly. "how've you been? Well?" She shakes her head. "You've lost some color. Are you eating well?"

 

"Mum," Zayn bites back the childish groan to his tone. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. Missed you."

 

She smiles at him, smiles at her precious gift. "Missed you, too." She lets him go, goes to explore the flat with Zayn anxiously at her heels.

 

She passes by the tidy single bedroom with the tidy single bathroom and the tidy single closet. She glances around the tidy single living room and the tiny single washroom. Then she's back in the tidy single kitchenette and shakes her head slowly, like she's been told awful news.

 

"Wow," his mum says. "you still clean like you're afraid of a little germs, yeah? You clean all the time. I know. You do it all the time."

 

Zayn slides past her and takes out some plates to set the table with. "Let's just eat. Let's eat, okay?"

 

His mum lets the previous topic hang in the air for a few more silent seconds before she's hesitantly following him and getting herself seated. He shares her her own amount, gives her a generous amount of naan off to the side, and pours black tea into both their cups before sharing for himself.

 

"Your first week of classes," she says. "how have they been? Good?"

 

Zayn flips his lamb in the stew, slides the bone off to the side of the bowl. "Good. Interesting classes, this year. Took up a lecture of Afro-Caribbean history."

 

"Yeah?" His mum takes a bite of her bread and chews it delicately. "History's good to learn. We all need to know the world's history."

 

Zayn nods. "We do." He lifts his tea cup by the stem, takes a long sip.

 

She takes another bite. Brief silence before she starts up again, "Your sisters miss you. Talk about you a lot."

 

Zayn's still sipping.

 

"And your father," she continues with a short laugh. "He's telling everybody how you're doing so well for yourself. I don't think your sisters could handle being in a flat by themselves, without their family close by. But our little Zayn," she shakes her head. "Now he's the independent one."

 

Zayn sets his cup back down. Zayn's trying to keep still, trying to remain level-headed, but his fingers are shaking and his sight is blurring at the edges and his chest, my, is his chest unbelievably tight. His heart won't stop racing, nor will his mind, and he's spinning in it, losing his senses.

 

"Yeah," Zayn gets out as best he can. He places his hands on his thighs and takes a slow intake of breath, lets it out just as gently. His eyes are wet. "Doing just well, thanks to you."

 

"I just can't stop worrying. I worry a lot. I know you're just fine, but you're still my son, Zayn. You're still my child." She sets her half-eaten bread down on the edge of her bowl. He watches intently. "I feel a little selfish sometimes, I 'spose. For wanting you to need me."

 

Zayn only clears his throat.

 

The rest of the dinner goes by the same. Zayn doesn't remember most of it, thinks his brain conveniently rejected it all, but he does remember counting — counting each bite (one, two, three) and each sip (twenty, twenty one, twenty three) and trying not to pass out when she holds him close and makes him promise to phone her sometime.

 

Zayn gets motion sickness after she leaves. He tries at washing the dirtied dishes, tries until he can't take it anymore and bends over the loo, vomits enough to make him dizzy.

 

He passes out at three in the morning.

 

•

 

Zayn has his hands wrapped around a thermo of tea and his body in a coat this particularly cold fall day. He can't avoid it when Harry catches him at the cafe for a refill; he tries to keep it as short as he can.

 

"Zayn," Harry coos with a tight hug. "I haven't seen your stupid arse in a couple of days now. What happened to phoning me to sit and chat?"

 

"Sorry," answers Zayn as he approaches the counter. "Got too busy."

 

"No problem." Harry shrugs. He leans on the counter next to Zayn and waits until he's done ordering to say, "So, you've met Liam, haven't you? The one with no hair?"

 

"I have," Zayn says, ignoring the tightness to his chest with the memory.

 

"Cheers. He's gonna hang with El, Lou, Caroline, Niall, and I at my flat Friday night. You up for it?"

 

Zayn's mouth hangs open on an unspoken word while he takes the refilled thermal from the cashier. "I don't —"

 

"Zayn," Harry says sternly. "don't do that. Just don't, yeah? Say yes and come." He follows Zayn out the cafe and onto campus grounds. Students step all around them, in different directions. "I haven't heard a word from you all fuckin' week."

 

"Sorry," Zayn squeaks.

 

"A shitty friend, is what you are," he lectures. "Be nice. Liam's even gone to ask for you." He tosses his hands up. "Look what you've done, having the new member ask for you when he barely even knows you."

 

This, Zayn stops walking at. Turning to look at Harry incredulously, he asks, "Liam's asked for me?"

 

"Yeah," Harry answers instantly, not catching on. He places one hand on a jutting hip, made dramatic only by the tightness of his jeans. "He was wondering where the handsome Zayn lad was at. Louis told him you hated the lot of us, he was so mad."

 

"Sorry —"

 

"Yeah, yeah." Harry waves him off. "Don't be sorry, just come. It'll be funner with our final member of the crew."

 

 _Final member of the crew_. It's surprising, sometimes, how they still consider him their kin when he can't keep in touch to save his life. There'll always be circumstances where they find him, but Zayn can't find anybody or anything when he's not looking. He hasn't been looking in what seems like an eternity.

   

"Yeah," Zayn finally says. "Yeah, that's fine."

 

And if Harry isn't the fucking happiest person in the world as he pulls Zayn into an intimate embrace with a cheer, Zayn doesn't understand anything.

 

•

 

The night before the gathering is spent not resting, just fretting. He scrubs down the loo as best he can, even wipes down the walls of the flat when he can't find anything else to clean. His fingers won't stop shaking. His mind won't slow down.

 

Zayn survives the following day of classes like a zombie, just going through the motions. His body aches, eyelids heavy and lips dry. He buys himself a jumbo cup of coffee and downs it all before his last lecture of the day.

 

His mum calls that night, just before he's managed to get himself dressed and is running his hand through his hair, over and over and over again. Zayn lets his cell ring for a while, just stares at himself in the mirror, watches as his breath comes out in shaky exhales and sharp inhales, how his teeth won't stop chattering for nothing, even when he attempts at keeping his mouth closed. His thick, dark lashes are wet, eyes red.

 

And maybe his mum was right, telling him he face was pale. He's losing color in his face.

 

"Mum," Zayn finally answers his cell. His voice cracks, hoarse, around the greeting. "And how've you been?"

 

"Well," his mum replies coolly. "And I'm hoping you've been well as well?"

 

Zayn runs another hand through his hair. Little ghost hairs trap in between his shaky fingers, and he has to roll in lips in to fight back the all too familiar lump in his throat. "Yeah. I'm — I'm about to go out, mum. Hang out with some friends."

 

"Are you?" she asks, incredulous. "You've decided to go?"

 

Zayn blinks rapidly, turns away from his reflection to catch himself. There's that opportunity here, again. He feels the panic rush up into his chest, make him dizzy. He can get it in here, right now, and save himself the guilt, the grief, the shame.

 

But, "Yeah. I need to go now, so. So I'll have to phone you later."

 

"Of course, love. Enjoy yourself."

 

Zayn lets the silence fill the line for a few seconds longer before he's hanging up, tossing his cell to the floor and crouching over his vanity dresser as soon as he's got it away from him.

 

Zayn hates hating himself. But, in times like this, he can't help it.

 

•

 

He cleans up nicely for the gathering. Even tosses a smile in there for extra effect. He's got his fringe looking right and his face clean shaven; got his favorite coat buttoned up and the sleeves of his sweater underneath pulled down proper.

 

Harry and Louis race to open the door, he hears from the rushed footsteps and their hollering voices. Louis finally swings the flat door open first, Harry draped all over him from behind. "Zayn!" Harry gasps before Louis can say a word.

 

"Harry," Zayn turns to Louis. "Louis. Good evening."

 

"Stop being so formal, man, and get your arse in here," replies Louis, grabbing him by his collars and tugging him in.

 

The flat smells like chicken, fries, and something sweet, music playing softly in the backdrop of the telly, laughter, and conversation. Zayn kicks off his shoes at the front before following Louis and Harry into the living room where he finds Eleanor and Caroline on the couch, sipping a glass of wine. Liam is at the dining table with Niall, playing a game of cards. Telling by their facial expressions, Niall seems to be winning.

 

"Zayn," Eleanor smiles that lovely smile when they catch eyes. "I heard from the grapevine that you wouldn't be coming."

 

"Yeah? Well, the grapevine was incorrect."

 

"Yeah," says Caroline. "Niall and Louis had a bet on it. I guess Louis won."

 

"Really, now?" Zayn turns to look at Louis' bashful face, trying to appear unphased that they actually bet on his appearance or not. "Louis bet I'd come?"

 

"Yup," Harry chirps. He find his seat next to Caroline on the couch, slips an arm around her shoulders. "He still has faith in you."

 

Zayn looks at Louis until Niall comes to ruin the mood, practically tossing himself on the older lad. "Z," Niall says against his shoulder, the embrace turning warm when he holds him gently and rests his face against his shoulder. "I only saw you for a couple of minutes before you ditched me last week. What's up with that?"

 

Zayn gives his back a pat, fights the surfacing guilt. "Sorry, mate. Had to get things done on a tight schedule. But I'm here now, aren't I?"

 

"That you are," Liam says as he stands up from the table. Zayn snaps his attention to him, catches his breath in his throat when he sees that familiar glint in those eyes, the smile on those full lips.

 

Liam's wearing a tee today, but the sleeves are tight around his arms, tucked nice on his body. And those jeans — they're just enough so that they show off the definition in his thighs and the slope of those well-built calves. And that golden skin; Zayn needs a drink of water.

 

"How've you been, mate?" Liam asks as he approaches. "You're the only mystery in this group, it seems. Haven't seen you more than twice as it is."

 

Niall releases Zayn, but Zayn doesn't seem to notice. "Yeah," he starts, but everyone else finishes.

 

"He's usually been a little more social than this," Louis interjects as he crosses the living room and turns into the kitchen. "This is a recent thing he's got going."

 

"'M used to chasing him," says Harry casually. He flings his arm over the arm of the couch. "It's not that difficult to find him; the getting him to spend time is the difficult part."

 

"I see him whenever the other lads do," Niall continues with the trend. "Which is practically never." His eyes squint when he laughs.

 

"Okay, okay," Zayn waves his hand at all of them. "You're making me sound like a bad friend. Enough with that, alright?"

 

Louis clears his throat loudly from the kitchen.

 

"You too, Louis."

 

He gets himself seated at the dining table, between Niall and Liam, and Louis passes a glass of wine to him on the way through and towards the couch. Zayn swishes the wine with the turn of his wrist, sets it back down when Liam addresses him, says, "And how old are you, Zayn?"

 

"Nineteen," answers Zayn — and it feels weird coming off his tongue, like he's only just now realized years have passed, and birthdays, too. He thinks he also conveniently forgets those memories.

 

Liam nods. "The youngest, next to Harry, then." He smiles, a warm death trap (Zayn can feel it already). "I'm twenty one. Up there, with Louis."

 

Zayn feels himself shrug. "No problem. You're far from the oldest here."

 

Niall silently stacks up the cards beside them. Neither boy notices.

 

Liam take a sip of his own wine, then recognition passes through his eyes and he swallows quickly (Adam's apple bobs, bobs, bobs) to tell him, "I've had this before," with a hint of excitement. "My mum used to give me wine as a kid; told me a little alcohol was good for growth. I think my drinking's gone a little out of control, though." He grins around his laugh.

 

"Yeah?" Zayn asks. He feels light headed, seeing the way Liam moves animatedly, expresses his emotions so vividly that it's blinding. He's got his muscles tight in right places, broad shoulder jutting upwards as he shrugs and gesticulates. Zayn never knew something like this existed, feeling dizzy for someone you barely even knew.

 

"I tried out for football way back when," Liam tells him during his fourth story and third drink. The music's playing loudly now, and Harry's spinning a tipsy Caroline 'round and 'round as street lights flicker on just beyond the window. "but I wasn't as put together then; got knocked around by all the other boys. Got knocked around a lot, actually." He shrugs. "I think that's where I got more of this fighting spirit. I don't let any ol' bloke mess with me, 'less it's my old man."

 

Zayn swishes his first cup of wine around again, lets it settle back down, untouched. "You're a bit of a bully, then."

 

"No, no," laughs Liam. "I'd call myself more of a ... a no-bullshitter. Don't bother me, I won't bother back."

 

"Hm," Zayn hums. "Makes sense."

 

"See," Liam starts with his hands placed palm first on the table, on both sides of his empty wine glass. "there's this time I went down by a bar, and there were some drunk blokes causing trouble. Didn't pay it any mind at first, because it wasn't my problem then." He shakes his head slowly as he gathers his next words. "But then one of 'em approaches me, tries to snag my stool by the bar as if he owned the place."

 

There's a pause as Liam looks past Zayn, a distant smile spreading on his face, and Zayn feels like he knows where this is going when Liam looks him back in the eyes. "I don't wanna go too deep into it," Liam says with a flick of a wrist. "but, um, I'm just gonna say I'm sure he remembers this face."

 

Zayn smiles tightly. "Bully," he teases, just after a cheer from what sounds like Louis erupts behind them. Liam gives him a pained face, like he just lost him by admitting a tale of a violent night, but Zayn doesn't know. It's, like — _hot_ , in a way. Hot that Liam doesn't take shit from anybody, will protect and fight for himself, and — and maybe protect and fight for Zayn, too. He licks his dry bottom lip, bites back a laugh as Liam tries to right his self-perceived wrong.

 

"I didn't kill the guy, or anything," he explains. "Just one swing; not a full out brawl."

 

"Didn't you?" Zayn asks as seriously as he can, finding this whole thing sort of amusing, easy to take advantage of. He furrows his thick eyebrows at him, tightens his jaw. "Then, you put him in the hospital? That's sort of evil."

 

Liam runs a hand through his short hair and adamantly proclaims, "Just one swing mate. Promise I didn't even knock him out."

 

Zayn can't take it anymore; he bursts out into laughter until tears prick his eyes. He can feel Niall (who got Eleanor to come keep him company at the table) look over her shoulder at him, and the bustle behind him momentarily quiets down. Liam's face is as what can be described as shyly confused.

 

Zayn hunches over the table, lets his laughter die until he can see clearly and speak proper. He lifts his head, smiles huge at Liam as he says, "You're gullible, mate. I was just fucking around," he sits all the way up, "I could care less if you knocked the drunkard out, let alone killed 'em."

 

Liam's face falls, slightly relieved, but still shy, as the attention remains entirely on them. "Really, then?" His laugh is just as relieved. "I was sure you thought I was an _animal_."

 

Zayn shakes his head. When Niall finally turns his attention away, he leans forward, tells Liam, "Sexy," in a gentle purr. "how you defend yourself."

 

Liam is looking him straight into the eyes. The street lights pour in, illuminates one half of his face and one warm, brown eye. Death trap. "Yeah?" he asks. "That's," a visible swallow proceeds. "good. Really good."

 

And, suddenly, Zayn really, really wants to take him home. Wants to kiss him hard, like he means it, and feel those powerful arms push him down, open him up, make him look as vulnerable as he feels. He wants it, so bad, but Harry declares that they, quote-unquote, _must_ go into town tonight, just to fuck around, and in moments they're all stumbling out the door with their shoes barely on and spirits high.

 

They walk. Harry's flat complex is just down the street from town, and Zayn thinks that's great, because no one is well enough to drive but him. He and Liam lag behind the rest, swaying their hands back and forth and brushing knuckles, sometimes.

 

Light pours between Harry's long, thin legs as one hand snakes around Caroline's shoulders, as Caroline looks up to tell him something, and he's smiling down at her like he can't notice anything else, ever. Louis and Eleanor chase one another like a bunch of kids; Niall comes in tow.

 

"I love this freedom," Liam sighs, squints up at the moon just overhead. "I can just go out when I want, stay out for as long as I want."

 

Zayn watches him. "This is how it feels to be an adult, maybe." He fixes his coat collars. "All the stress and the freedom."

 

"Stress," Liam sighs heavily. "yeah. Stress is the bad part, I 'spose." He looks at Zayn, smiling softly. "You have to go through the bad to get to the good."

 

Zayn forgets what he was going to say; just smiles back. The two continue on in short silence before they're getting into town and Harry's making sure everybody is following like little ducklings.

 

Liam eventually finds his arm around Zayn's shoulders. Zayn doesn't mind. By the time the group gets to their first restaurant, Liam has Zayn against the brick wall, holding him close from around his shoulders and Zayn's chest is tight, so tight, as he holds Liam by his waist.

 

Warm. Zayn hasn't felt warm in years. Everything is done with racing minds and shaky fingers, with heavy thought and a heavy heart. But here — Zayn's perfectly fine here, against Liam and breathing in the musk and cologne of that golden skin.

 

Liam presses a kiss to Zayn's temple, tickles the hair at the nape of his neck with square fingers. And, _god_ , Zayn's already in the death trap. "Give me your phone number," Liam's voice, suddenly husky, says pressed to Zayn's ear. "I want to hear from you again. Want you to phone me and not go and disappear for weeks. Okay?" He pulls back when Zayn doesn't answer fast enough, touches foreheads. "Okay, Zayn? Don't go and disappear on me."

 

Zayn's nod is erratic. "Yeah," he swallows. "Okay. Won't go and disappear on you."

 

"Tomorrow," Liam answers. His face is gentle, soothing. Fucking death trap. "Phone me tomorrow. Wanna have lunch with you. Maybe dinner."

 

Zayn lets his eyes flutter close. It doesn't take much longer for Liam to kiss him.

 

It doesn't take much longer for Zayn to feel sick with it.

 

•

 

They eat lunch at Zayn's place. Liam feeds him the one sandwich and fries they share between them; Zayn counts the bites between smiles and heavy kisses.

 

And Liam's got this sleeveless tank top on, showing off his golden skin and tight muscles. Zayn can't stop touching him, touching this and that and especially that stubbly jaw, those full lips. Liam kisses him again. He tastes like ketchup and death. Zayn slides the plastic box of food onto the couch next to them.

 

"Z," Liam says, sudden with his nickname. He holds him tight by his waist, pressing into his pale skin. "you're so — you make me feel lucky."

 

"Huh?" Zayn answers with his eyes still half-lidded, waiting for those lips again. He can feel Liam's heavy breath against his face. "Lucky?"

 

"Beautiful. You're really beautiful."

 

This catches him off guard. Now his honey amber eyes are open, looking to Liam for an explanation.

 

"Saw you that day with Louis," he continues. "Was desperate to talk to you again; I'm glad you showed back up. Really glad."

 

What follows is confused silence. Because, what? Zayn doesn't know what to say to this, doesn't know if he _can_ say anything to proper answer this. But it's not like he has to, because Liam's kissing him again, pressing him back onto the arm of the couch and wrapping him up in those strong arms. Zayn adores those strong arms.

 

They get undressed on the couch, move over to his bed when Zayn complains about the couch digging into his spine. Liam's always got him in his arms, always makes sure he feels comfortable, he feels certain he wants to do this.

 

"I'm gonna get attached," Liam warns him after pulling back from a heated kiss, breathless. "I'm gonna make sure I see you everyday. Gonna ask you to commit."

 

Zayn can only nod, runs his fingers over his head and holds him by the shoulders, thumbs in the dip of those collarbones. He's sure he said yeah, yeah, okay, I'm yours, but he must've conveniently forgotten. He doesn't think he'll mind this trap. Ever.

 

•

 

All too quickly Zayn's got a boy. They're not exactly committed, not yet, but Liam brings him fries after his first class and comes to massage his shoulders on stressful evenings. And when they're out, Liam's got this hard look in his eyes, one arm slung around Zayn, and he doesn't seem to want to let him go — ever.

 

"You're so good to me," Liam'll say with a laugh when Zayn feeds him the fries Liam brought. His hands will find his knee, never let go. He won't ever stop smiling. Zayn likes this Liam, likes him so much.

 

"Shut up and eat," Zayn will return, bites back the laughter in his voice. "I can turn evil by next week; you don't know. It's only been two."

 

"Only two," Liam repeats, dabs his mouth with a napkin. "feels like four. Or five. Since I see you almost everyday, I 'spose."

 

"Yeah. True."

 

"We've never had a proper date, though," persists Liam. He gives Zayn's knee a squeeze. "Think we should do that? Go on our first date?"

 

Zayn raises a fry to Liam's mouth. Liam takes it between his teeth, raising his eyebrows playfully at him before stuffing the rest in. "Really? A date?" Zayn asks softly. He leans back and runs a hand through his fringe. "We can just watch movies here. We don't have to do all that formal rubbish."

 

"Yeah?" says Liam. "Just watch a movie tonight for our date?" He gives Zayn a worried expression. "This isn't a test, is it?"

 

"Huh?" Zayn scoffs. "A test?"

 

"Yeah," Liam nods. "Like, some girls I used to know would insist we'd do something inexpensive; would expect me to take them on a fancy dinner anyway. Like a test, of sorts."

 

Zayn furrows his eyebrows. "Well. No. This isn't a test." He feels a little bothered, hearing about Liam's past dates. He doesn't know how he feels about being compared to them when Liam hasn't even asked him to be exclusive, yet.

 

"Good," Liam breathes. "Then, yes. We can definitely do movies tonight."

 

Zayn lets Liam kiss him, hard, before he pulls back and reaches for the fries.

 

•

 

Zayn's mum phones in the middle of some martial arts movie he and Liam are watching on his bed. Liam's pressed up beside him, that hand still crawling over his knee. Zayn feels high when he reaches out and answers it with a, "Mum. I'm busy."

 

"Are you, now?" she says incredulously. "Busy cleaning?"

 

Zayn rolls his eyes to the roof, ignores Liam's insistent stare. "No. I'm," he pauses, "I have company."

 

Silence. Then, "Oh." And, " _Oh_."

 

"Yeah," Zayn says.

 

"Okay, well, I'm so sorry, love. Enjoy your night, and phone me tomorrow, maybe?"

 

"Sure."

 

"Your mum?" Liam asks when Zayn hangs up. "She calls you a lot?"

 

Zayn feels heat creep to his cheeks. Which, he's never been embarrassed of his mum calling him — but that was because he never had guests. Was always alone. So, this is all different, unusual, but, strangely, in a good way. He likes this, feeling again.

 

"Yeah," he eventually gets out. He leans his head on Liam's shoulder, shrugs as he tells him, "let's just watch the movie, okay?"

 

"Sure," Liam presses a kiss into his temple. Zayn passes out another twenty minutes in.

 

•

 

The whole rest of the group have done a good job at keeping quiet, for the first three weeks. They behave like they always do, begging for Zayn to hang out and going out into town; Zayn always finds Liam beside him, there.

 

But it's like Louis can't take it anymore, has to get it out, and when they meet in the campus cafe on the fourth week, Louis blurts, "So how are you and Liam?"

 

Zayn takes his thermo of tea with shaky hands from the cashier, settles down at a seat in the corner. Louis follows suit. "Liam and I? Fine." He wants to try and keep it under wraps for longer — at least until Liam decides he wants to make it exclusive. But, _fourth_ _week_ , and Zayn can’t help that he's losing hope.

 

"Fine?" Louis gapes. "Just fine? You two are fucking _lovebirds_ , mate. _Lovebirds_."

 

Zayn shakes his head. "No, no, just talking." He raises his hand to his hair, thinks about the ghost hairs he'll find between his fingers, lowers his hand again. He isn't feeling high in hopes about plenty, lately. The high is gone.

 

"Just talking," parrots Louis dryly. "That's not what it looks like, with all your snogging and flirting." He lets Zayn process this, lets him sip his tea. "Liam talks about you a lot, Malik. About your eyes and your eyelashes. I think he's fallen hard as fuck in love."

 

"Love," Zayn scoffs. "It's only been four weeks since we met, mate."

 

"And the bloke is almost always with you," Louis counters. "I'm lucky as fuck to get you alone as of late." He leans forward, with devious eyes. "You two not dating yet?"

 

Zayn doesn't want to talk about this. Maybe two weeks ago — or maybe even one week ago — he'd feel lucky for Liam to even talk about him as much as he seemingly does, but the days are passing them by and he doesn't know what Liam is waiting for, if he wants Zayn to be the one to ask, or what. He just wants to be sure of something in his life for once.

 

"I'd love to chat about Liam and dates and such," Zayn starts as he gets up. "but I've really got to go." He fights the dizziness when he's up on his feet, even uses a hand to level himself on the table. Some tea pours out of the teetering thermo. "/Shit/."

 

"You alright, mate?" Louis asks as he jumps out of his seat and holds Zayn by the shoulders. "Zayn?"

 

Zayn tries to swallow with a dry mouth, nods while getting his eyes to focus in on Louis' grey jumper. "Yeah, yeah, I'm perfect." He slips out of Louis' grip and starts towards the door. "I've gotta head off to class. See you later."

 

Louis watches him in uncertain silence, waits until Zayn is completely out of sight before he lets himself relax.

 

•

 

In the dark, Zayn can't see him, but he can feel the warmth from his skin. They haven't got the covers proper on, are just using one another's limbs to keep from getting too cold. Zayn is all too aware of the even breath on the side of his face, down his jaw. His fingers dance over that short head of hair.

 

Liam takes tonight, of all nights, to ask questions. Zayn's almost fucking got himself asleep, was looking forward to it, actually, when Liam's voice surfaces when he says, "You're a really skinny guy."

 

Zayn doesn't know what the fuck to say to this. His muscles tense, on edge, and he keeps his jaw locked and lips tight. He just wants to sleep — Jesus Christ.

 

"And I was thinking," starts up Liam again. He soothingly massages a hand into the small of Zayn's back, keeps his hand tucked underneath there. "You don't ever eat, do you?"

 

He can suddenly barely breathe, his chest is so tight.

 

"Don't get me wrong," says Liam. His breath puffs out with each word, minty with death. "I don't really want to get into it. Don't think a grown man needs a lecture from another grown man. But — but you don't really sleep, either, do you?"

 

Zayn still keeps his lips tight. He doesn't know what the fuck to say, just wants to go to bed. Liam won't let him go to bed.

 

"You're always awake when I fall asleep and always up before I am." Liam takes a pause to consider this. "I even woke myself up one morning just to see your sleeping face." Zayn feels him shrug. "I wanted to know what you looked like sleeping. You always see mine."

 

Zayn turns his head the opposite direction and blinks in the darkness for the clock. Red neon numbers tell him twelve forty. Liam is usually out by eleven; my fucking god.

 

"You," Liam's voice cracks. "You were making yourself sick, weren't you? Last night."

 

Pause. Longer pause. Then Zayn shoots up in bed, kicks off Liam's legs as he gets up and says, sternly, "Get out. Get the fuck out." He stumbles through the dark with a racing heart, his head fucking spinning from lack of sleep and an empty stomach, and switches on the light. He can't look Liam in the face as he repeats, louder still, "Get the fuck out of my flat, Liam."

 

Liam sits up and squints in the sudden light. Shielding his eyes with a hand, he asks, "What?" in a tone so incredulous it makes Zayn want to kill him, fucking _kill_ him.

 

He will _not_ be made into the fool here.

 

"You heard me," Zayn tells him, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Walk your stupid fucking arse back home; get the fuck out of my flat."

 

"Jesus, Zayn," Liam groans, rolls his head around and touches the back of his neck for knots. "You have a fucking problem and you're taking it out on me?"

 

"You said you didn't want to lecture me," counters Zayn. "Then don't lecture me, Li. _Don't_."

 

"Mate —"

 

"I don't want to hear _shit_ from a bloke who'll fuck me but won't ask for commitment. Who'll fucking lie right in my god damn face about how he's gonna get attached, gonna make me commit, but won't ever do it. Do you know how long it's been since then, Liam? Do you?"

 

The look Liam's giving him is making him feel pathetic, useless, but he doesn't stop. His mouth is pouring it all out, and it won't halt just from a critical expression. Tears are burning his eyes while he says, "It's been a month now. A bloody _month_. I haven't heard shit from you since then."

 

"A month and you're down about fifteen pounds," Liam replies coolly. "Have you looked in the mirror lately, Zayn? You look like you're dying."

 

Zayn is baffled. He tries to say too many things at once, only to stumble around all of them, and when he decides it's not worth it, really not fucking worth it, he points out his room and says, "Get out," in the most even voice he can muster.

 

Liam takes his time getting out the bed. Watching his stupid muscular back tense as he bends over and grabs his tee shirt makes Zayn pissed; and watching the way Liam pads across his bedroom for his shorts like he's just taking a casual stroll pulls him over the edge.

 

"Get the fuck out," Zayn shouts, shoving Liam forward before he even realizes what he's doing. His vision is blurry, but somehow he can make out that golden skin in the midst of it; he gives Liam another shove, this time nearly pushing him over. " _Hurry up_!"

 

"Zayn," Liam warns. He turns around and snatches Zayn's wrists, tries to keep him under control. "You need to relax, yeah? You need get sat down and breathe."

 

"Yeah?" Zayn tries, futile in his attempts to break himself free. He twists and pulls his arms roughly, just wants Liam to let the fuck go so he can punch that gorgeous fucking face in. "What're you gonna do? Punch me like you did that drunkard at the bar?"

 

Liam seems slightly impressed that Zayn remembers a tale from so long ago. "I won't hit you," he says in an even voice. "I'm not like that, 'less you give me reason to."

 

"A reason," Zayn scoffs, and now there's tears, now they're coming down his face in streams. He's never cried, not in years. Funny how one guy can make all the difference.

 

He manages to get one hand free. And with a, "Here's your fucking reason," he swings a closed fist and gets Liam right in the jaw, makes Liam stagger backwards before he's tripping over his feet and hitting the dresser on his way down.

 

Zayn never thought of himself as the violent type. Never had been in a fight, 'till now. Hell, he doesn't know _what_ type he is anymore. But when Liam gives him a fiery look with one hand cupping the spot of impact, all resolution slips from his mind.

 

Liam shoves him, hard. And Zayn's sure Liam cries, "You're fucking _mad_ ," before his spine catches the light switch and he's crumpled up on the carpet, crying until he's too weak to even do that.

 

•

 

Liam leaves. But then he comes right back, almost ten minutes later, to lift him up from his spot on the bedroom floor and carry him to the living room couch. "You're fucking insane," Liam tells him again, shakes his head in both disappointment and fondness. Zayn just whimpers as Liam makes sure he's settled where he should be.

 

Zayn keeps his eyes closed as he fights to even his breath and erratically beating heart. But his body feels like it's at its limit, just barely keeping him conscious. He hates himself so much.

 

Liam throws out the four week old naan and nahari. It's been stinking up the fridge for so long. Liam finds some eggs and frozen vegetables, makes him stir fry with that.

 

"Come on," coos Liam, slipping under Zayn and lifting him up from under his armpits. "You need to eat."

 

Zayn doesn't respond, just lets himself be dragged around while his body sits, limp.

 

"I hate you," Liam laughs wryly, when he feels Zayn giving up. "I hate you for dragging me into this fucking mess." He kisses Zayn's temple desperately, keeps his arms tight around him. "You knew it'd be too late for me by now. You fucking knew, didn't you?"

 

Zayn still doesn't respond. He can feel himself breathing.

 

Liam sighs. Then, voice cracking through tears, "I hate you. I hate you." He holds him close; refuses to let go.

 

Too many sleepless nights.

 

•

 

Zayn never stops feeling sick. It never comes and goes, just remains, like a plague — and when he's lifting bites to his mouth he'll count it, count it all, even if it doesn't go past his lips.

 

And Zayn's been feeling particularly sick all over; in his mind and in his bones. His eyelids always feel heavy, full of endless weight — he can barely memorize equations, much less leave the flat and pull on a happy face.

 

Liam still tries to stop by every weekday, mostly Saturdays, when he knows Zayn's avoiding calls from his mum and rotting, just rotting as every hour ticks on. He always has something cruel to say, but he hands Zayn dinner and sits and watches silently, anyway, as Zayn chews, counts the bite, chews.

 

They've stopped talking as frequently as they once did. Or, at least, _Zayn's_ stopped talking. He just listens when Liam's got something to say, occasionally says _'no'_ or _'stop'_ when Liam pushes him to do something he's not convinced he could; which, in Zayn's impossibility terms, is eating that and that and especially not _those_ (and not go and make himself sick after, either). And, no, he can't talk to his mum, not yet, but for no particular reason: he just _can't_. Liam's tries not to push that too hard.

 

That Saturday, when Zayn's up a few more pounds and is battling a sandwich from the student union, Liam decides to stop by. He hasn't come for two days, now, and it's a bittersweet surprise when Zayn opens the door and Liam's standing on the other side.

 

But he's with a guest. A slender and tall guest, with curly hair and concerned, green eyes. Zayn's heart drops when Harry looks him over, visibly swallows, then asks, "And how've you been, Z? It's been nearly a month since I've last seen you."

 

Zayn notices how Liam intently watches the lowering, half-eaten sandwich in his hand. He tries not to get mad, punch Liam for disappearing on him, for acting all concerned and bringing Harry along to watch how he's suffering. And, above fucking all, for still not making things official.

 

He tries at a smile, takes a few mental breaths, and backs up to grant them entry instead. "I'm well, thanks. Just finishing up dinner." He makes sure to at least shoot Liam a death glare when Harry brushes past him and into the flat.

 

Liam just stares, tightens his jaw, then follows right behind. They get into the living room when Liam says, "Harry's been dying to see you. Wouldn't shut up about where you are, how you're feeling; drove us all up the wall, really."

 

"I wasn't _that_ bad," argues Harry. "And, besides, why wouldn't I be wanting to see my best mate?" He drops back on the couch and crosses his legs the best way he can in tight jeans. A smile glows on his face when he tells Zayn, "I'm glad to see you're doing better. Missed you lots."

 

"Yeah," Zayn answers automatically, like clockwork. He can feel his gears start to shift again, his heart slow to a deadly pace. "Missed you, too."

 

Zayn hasn't slept proper in weeks — and he can _feel_ it in his body, like a weight that won't go away. Harry's lips are moving, but nothing's coming out; and Liam's got his hand on Zayn's knee, rubbing soothing circles into his skin. He stinks, like expensive cologne. He stinks, like the stench of someone new.

 

Harry leaves after several hugs and making Zayn give him empty promises to visit him sometime. He keeps at the smiles, the laughs, all up until Harry's gone and quiet falls over Liam and Zayn's heads. Zayn feels sick, and angry, and he still wants to punch Liam so hard that perfect nose breaks.

 

"Why'd you bring him over for?" Zayn asks with acid in his tone. He locks the front door of the flat, turns to look at Liam's sitting form on the couch.

 

"He wanted to see you, Zayn," Liam answers, exasperated, and it pisses Zayn the fuck off. "For all he knew, you could be _dead_. Rubbish friend is what you are."

 

Zayn inhales sharply. Then: "That's not your fucking problem, mate. You don't know Harry like I do — you don't know our fucking relationship."

 

Liam rolls his shoulders back, like they're just having a light-hearted conversation — and that's fucking annoying, too. Liam's so fucking annoying.

 

Zayn takes a few steps towards the living area, but makes sure to stop before he rushes full throttle and kick Liam's arse. "You're seeing other people, aren't you?"

 

This takes Liam off guard, for once. He gives Zayn a cross between a weary and an incredulous look, says very slow-like, "What are you going on about?"

 

There he goes again: making Zayn feel like the mad one. The stupid one. Lesser and evil. Zayn gains more ground, is so close that he could reach out and snatch Liam if he wanted to. "You're not acting like yourself. You don't even _smell_ like yourself; so don't you fucking _dare_ do that 'what are you even going on about' rubbish. You know very well what I'm 'going on about'."

 

"Zayn," Liam says with the raise of his palms, like he's trying to sedate him. He can't fucking do that. "I'm not seeing other people. I don't care to see other people?"

 

"Don't lie to me, Li. I swear to God if you lie to me again I'll make sure you can't breathe."

 

"Zayn." Liam stands very slowly, palms still raised, and shakes his head. "You're going to need to calm down, alright? You're malnourished, and when you're malnourished you start acting —"

 

Zayn takes the first swing. But Liam, after so many months of practice, sees it coming and ducks immediately. He rushes forward while Zayn's retracting his fist and grabs him from around his waist, forces him down onto the floor.

 

Zayn's elbow catches the corner of the coffee table on the way down, and he lets out a hiss when his spine grinds on the floor. "Get the fuck," he gasps, scratching at Liam's bare shoulders from under the thin straps of his tank top. " _off me_!"

 

They wrestle for control on the floor, 'till Zayn's knuckles swipe across Liam's teeth and Zayn's left hipbone slams against the ground beneath them. There's heavy breathing and breathy cuss words filling up the air in the flat before Liam's got him pinned down good, right between his legs, and has his wrists crossed above his head with one hand, his extra arm pressed hard against Zayn's chest, to keep him squirming, trapped.

 

"Zayn," Liam growls. "you need to _stop_." His eyebrows furrow and jaw tightens and — and, oh god, his heart’s beating in his throat in this sexy way, and his vein is popping, and he looks all rugged with his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his beard slightly overgrown.

 

The fight leaves Zayn just as quickly as it came, and now he's just breathless and feeling all too weak underneath Liam's muscular physique. He swipes a tongue across his chapped bottom lip, trains his eyes on Liam's mouth.

 

Liam catches on much quicker than he probably should. His gaze shifts from Zayn's eyes to his now-wet lips, and a loose, incredulous smile shapes on his face. "What? You're looking for something?"

   

"Something," Zayn parrots between breaths. "Maybe." He takes a pause. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm looking for something."

 

They stare one another down with a wild look in their eyes, stare each other down ferociously 'till Zayn does a very slight twitch to his leg, and that switches Liam into action; he crashes their lips together so hard it stings; their mouths slide together in a messy kiss, heavy — and maybe a little painful, but Zayn likes it this way. He feels jittery and horny and, _Liam_ , god Liam's so fit.

 

It doesn't take much longer for Liam to have Zayn pressed against the wall, completely naked and groaning as Liam sucks love bites down his throat, his chest, all the way to his hips. Then he's sliding back up and catching him in a hungry kiss with his hands holding Zayn up from underneath his thighs, spread and vulnerable for him. Zayn's still mad, still pretty fucking pissed at him for doing absolutely everything wrong, but he feels safe; feels safe being vulnerable when Liam's there to protect him.

He pretends not to know something’s terribly wrong with this drastic transition when Liam kisses him again, tells him he loves him more than once.

•

 

    It happens when Zayn’s mum invites herself to the flat the following weekend. It has to fucking happen when his mum decides to stop by to visit. But after his and Liam’s 180-degree feud the week before (when Zayn cried, “hurts, hurts,” when his bones grinded wrong and Liam held on too tight and they had to stop), he hasn’t seen the bastard in _days_ , and the loneliness hung the heaviest when he was lying in his bed at three a.m., curling in on his hunger cramps.

 

    And Zayn’s already trying to keep himself moving, keep the flat clean, keep his body twitching and prancing and walking so that maybe he’ll burn out, burn more energy, maybe die. Then his mum’s knocking, and Zayn blindly answers the door after scrubbing his hands ‘till they peeled on the palms, and his sight goes in and out when she pulls him for a hug and gasps, “God, _love_ , what’s happened to you? What’s _happened_ to you?”

 

    “Mum?” croaks Zayn; his voice is light, clingy, like a ten year old child’s — and he fucking hates it. Hates it and hates Liam and hates himself. He fucking _hates_ himself. He blinks back the stars in his eyes, pretends he doesn’t have a head that feels half a pound light and tunnel vision when his mum snatches up his hand and practically drags him into the bathroom. “Where are you —?”

 

    She flicks on the light, pulls Zayn up to the mirror, and says, sternly, “ _Look_.” She gives a moments pause to contain herself before she repeats, “ _Look_. Just _look_ at you, Zayn. Your shirt is falling off you, and — and — _Lord_ , your face is so sunken in.” She reaches out and touches his leg through the baggy joggers. “You look like a corpse, love, you look. You look. Oh my _god_ —”

 

She starts crying, and Zayn turns away from his reflection so quickly that stars burn his eyes, and he feels the anger rising within him. He can’t help the, “Mum. Stop it. Just _stop_ it.” He reaches out to touch her shoulder, assure her that he’s okay and everything’s okay and he’s not a corpse, he’s not dying, he’s not _anything_ , really. ‘Cause he _has_ eaten; he’s eaten that sandwich last week, had a few nibbles of bread two days earlier, and he’s going to be _okay_.

 

    But then, somewhere in between guiding her back to the couch and begging her to stop crying, his heart stutters, pauses, and then he can feel her hovering over him, screaming, before he goes completely out.

•

Alarmingly low potassium levels, the doctor says. Very high chance of a heart attack, the doctor says. He needs to consider either inpatient or outpatient, preferably the former, the doctor says. Consider contacting an eating disorder clinic for adults, the doctor says. His mum asks a million and one questions through tears, nods erratically every time the doctor assures her that he’ll be okay if he reaches out for help, and then the nurse comes in with some lunch and places it on Zayn’s lap, while his mum and the doctor chat.

    Orange juice. A medium bowl of soup. An apple. A box of raisins. He can feel everyone secretly watching him as he lifts the orange juice packet carefully and examines it. His pale, shivering hands only strengthen in the severity of its shaking the longer he stares at the orange juice, thinks of all the gross feelings, all of the overwhelming emotions, all of his silly, pathetic fucking life that’ll come back to him if he takes even one sip.

    Zayn’s ears start to ring. He opens the pack of orange juice while shaking his head, his lips pulled into his mouth to contain the quickly-arriving onslaught of tears. His shoulders begin to shake, too, as he tilts it towards his mouth. Then everything goes dark and he lets the juice box drop into his bowl of soup; covering his mouth with the back of one hand, he shakes his head over and over as he whimpers, “Mum, _please_. _Please_ don’t. I want to go home. _I want to go home_.”

    “Zayn —”

    “I want to go home, mum. Please. Please take me home,” he can’t stop his mouth from moving, he can’t stop his tears from pouring down his face, he can’t stop his ten-year old begging from slipping past his mouth. And when her arms wrap around his body and pull him in, it only gets worse. He holds her as tight as he can and sobs against her shoulder until the nurse sets the tray aside and his mum sits up on the bed to rock him side to side.

    She lets him refuse treatment. She stays with him as he discharges from the hospital later that evening.

•

    “You’re dropping _out_?”

    “Just temporary leave.” Zayn shoves some hair out of his face, pretends that he doesn’t catch a clump of dead hair in his hand. He turns to look into Louis’ wet blue eyes and tries at a smile. “I’m sick, Lou, if you haven’t already noticed.” He looks back at his semi-packed luggage and lets his face drop. “I’m. I’ve hurt a lot of people.”

    Louis leans back on Zayn’s bedroom dresser to process this as Harry squeaks from on top his bare mattress, “I’ll miss you lots. Even if you never liked to hang out.”

    “I _wanted_ to hang out,” tries Zayn. “Just couldn’t. Always weak. Always tired.” He rubs his eyes. Too many sleepless nights. He looks each boy in the face, smiles again. “I’m going to get better with my family’s help. Then I’ll be back, yeah? I’ll be back.”

    Louis crosses his arms across his chest, frowns. “You’re not going to tell Liam, are you?”

    Zayn doesn’t respond fast enough.

    Harry groans. “Don’t tell me that’s _our_ job. Just tell him, Z.”

    Zayn swallows hard, finally zips up one carry-on bag. “Can’t. It’ll make things harder. Just tell him I’m getting better, okay? And that I’m sorry.” He stares, lost, at his digital clock. “I really am.”

    “If that’s what you think is best,” says Louis with a shrug. “Consider your dirty work done.” He stands up off the dresser and starts towards the door. “C’mon, Hazza; give the man some space. He’s got a load of work to do in here.”

    “Lou,” begs Harry. “We can’t just let him go like this. He hasn’t even seen Niall or Caroline or even Eleanor off. He has to see everyone properly off before he does.” He looks at Zayn when he says, “even Liam.”

    “Harold,” Louis warns. “Zayn is a responsible guy, and if this is what he wants to do, we can’t argue.” His voice softens, “Just come on, yeah? Let him do what he thinks is right?”

    Zayn scoffs, looks at Louis. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology shite you’re pulling on me, man? Don’t pretend to be the better person here.” When Louis shyly shrugs and looks off, Zayn says, “Fine. I’ll go talk to him, okay? I’ll fucking go.”

    “Cheers!” Louis hollers, tossing his hands in the air. Then, as Harry rolls off the mattress and pulls his brown suede boots on, he softens his features and pulls Zayn into a hug. “We’re rooting for you, mate. We’re all rooting for you. So you fight that fight, yeah?”

    Zayn doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to bloody cry. “Yeah,” he croaks, as he hugs him back. Louis has always been too good at wearing him down, even at this pitiful state he’s dragged himself to. What has he done to himself? Why has he attempted so many times to let this friendship go?

    Harry joins in on the hug with a, “Love you, Z. Good luck, and all that.”

    Zayn stretches his arm to get Harry in on the hug, too. He lets their blending cologne burn his eyes as he says, “Thanks,”

    and means it, too.

•

    Zayn’s only text to Liam is, _we’ve got to talk; meet in front of my flat_ , before he gets his belongings out onto the side of the street and sits at a bench, waits for either his mum’s car or Liam to show. But, really, Zayn isn’t expecting much from Liam. Their relationship has been messy from the start, even when Liam told him that he was going to make him commit, and Zayn pretended that he could even manage a relationship with so many sleepless nights, so many days gone with his stomach eating itself from the inside out. He knew Liam felt it, too, and he knew Liam wanted out, just didn’t know how to do it without tearing whatever was left of Zayn’s sanity. Whatever _is_ left of Zayn’s sanity.

    It’s hot outside. Zayn’s shivering from how cold it feels inside his bones.

    Moments pass before Liam’s pulling up in his SUV; Zayn doesn’t know whether the erratic jump of his heart is from his disease or the shock to see that scruffy face again. Rolling his lips into his mouth, Zayn keeps his face stern as Liam parks a little ways down, slides out in a plain black tee and loose-fitting jeans, and starts up the sidewalk towards him.

    Zayn’s eyes are trained ahead when Liam slides onto the bench next to him. There’s a short stretch of complete silence while Liam gets himself situated leaning back on the bench, his hands in his pockets and gaze also ahead, at the flat complex across the street.

    “Leaving, huh,” he says flatly.

    Zayn allows two seconds to pass before he answers, “Afraid so.”

    A car drives by, over a speed bump, and down the corner. The two of them watch it carefully.

    “I’m proud of you,” says Liam, finally. But he still won’t look him in the face. Why won’t he look him in the fucking face, if he’s so proud?

    “Proud,” Zayn repeats dryly, then scoffs. Tightening his jaw and shooting Liam a hard look, he says, “Proud of what? Proud that I’m leaving, so now I can get off your back?” He doesn’t give Liam a chance to react. “It’s been _days_ , Liam. A whole week and two days, to be fair. And where have you been? Where the hell have you been with that commitment shit? Where have you been when I barfed so hard I woke up in front of the loo the next day? Where have you been when I was digging through my trash for the half-sandwich I ate a few days before because I was so fucking hungry? Where have you been with your fucking _commitment_ , Liam?”

    “This is hard for _both_ of us, Zayn, so don’t you fuking _dare_ blame me for your problems,” counters Liam. He takes his hands out of his pockets and points at Zayn incriminatingly. “Stop acting as if I can save you, stop acting as if it’s easy for me to handle somebody else’s bullshit when I have my own to deal with, yeah? Just _stop_ with all that rubbish.”

    Zayn gets to his feet. “Then why’d you fucking say you wanted to commit,” he nearly screams. His voice carries in the open air, but he doesn’t care anymore. He never has, really. “Why, Li? Why’d you say you’d commit to me if you’re going to jump the goddamn ship so early into the game?”

    Liam visibly retracts. “Because,” he starts with a tame tone to his voice. “because that was before.”

    “Before what?”

    Liam doesn’t answer. He just turns away so that he’s giving Zayn the profile of his face, his jaw clenching and unclenching constantly.

    Then that’s when Zayn gets it. That’s when the realization slaps him in the face; punches him so hard he’s blinded with the excruciatingly painful truth. “Oh,” he breathes, like oxygen has been shoved out of his lungs. “Before you knew.”

    Still no answer.

    Zayn can’t look at him anymore. “You thought this’d be easy. Thought _I’d_ be easy. I get it now.” Stretch of silence. “Well, sorry I’ve been too much to handle. You’re free to go, then.” He settles back onto his seat and keeps his hands pressed tightly between his knees, until the bone digs into the tops of his hands and stings.

    “I care about you,” Liam’s voice is grave. “Love you, even. I just — I just didn’t want things to turn out this way.” He stands up, but Zayn still can’t look. Can’t, can’t, can’tcan’tcan’t. “I’ll be here for you when you come back. I love you, Zayn.”

    Liam gives him plenty of time to respond, but Zayn swears himself to silence. He doesn’t want to speak to this life-ruiner ever again. He feels like the past two months have been an absolute waste of his already-trash life. He hates this man with all the little energy he has. He can’t believe or understand any of this, nor can he his emotions.

    He wants to be alone. So Liam turns, and Liam leaves, and Zayn is left alone.

•

    Yaser is reduced to tears when he first sees Zayn. They hug, and Yaser cries silently on his shoulder, and Zayn wants to die more than he has ever in his entirety of living. His sisters are already sleeping in their bedrooms, so Zayn is instructed to just get settled in his own room, and then come downstairs for dinner. “We got some carryout,” his mum tells him gently from his bedroom door. “There’s some left over fish and chips on the counter for you.”

    “Thanks,” answers Zayn slowly. He keeps his back to her as he unzips his luggage and begins taking shirts out of it.

    “Zayn.”

    “Yes, mum?” He tries to contain the groan in his voice.

    “Please eat something. Even if it isn’t the fish and chips.”

    He doesn’t answer.

    “Promise me? Please?” She enters the room and presses a soft hand to his back, pretends she doesn’t feel the jutting spine. “We need you alive, love.”

    Zayn swallows hard. “Promise. I promise.”

    She gives him a kiss to the back of the hand and a gentle, “Thank you,” before she leaves him to his personal space.

•

    He soon realizes that this is going to be harder than almost anything he’s ever done. See, equations you can just look up the answer and jot it down. Vocabulary you can just memorize and blurt out when you need to to get the passing grade. Essays, you can just gather the information off many sources and dumb it down onto a sheet of paper. But re-teaching yourself to eat after so many years of treating food like it was the enemy, choosing to live after so much time passing of wishing you were dead: that was next to impossible.

    Zayn gets overwhelmed four times a day about everyday he’s living with his parents. He embarasses himself during every family mealtime in front of his younger sisters, crying and throwing fits and sometimes even screaming at Yaser at the tops of his lungs when he’s given too much this, told to do too much of that, threatened to eat or else his privileges will be limited. And every mealtime ends in tears, or anger, or hard feelings; nothing changes for weeks.

    It comes to the point that his youngest sister begs him to eat, and that makes him feel like the biggest pile of shit that has ever been born. It comes to the point that Yaser grows so livid that he drives Zayn to the hospital, makes him beg not to take him back, and then drives him back home and watches as Zayn sits in the living room and finishes his dinner.

    And — is this living? What is this? Because it certainly isn’t a life, and Zayn certainly doesn’t want to do this anymore. He wants to go back to his flat and rot; _that_ has been his life for so long, so what’s the issue now? Why does he have to be monitored and treated like a child for something that doesn’t concern anyone but himself? _Why is he doing this_?

    Then he sees his mum’s thankful face when he gets that first chip into his mouth and chews. Then he sees his sister’s lovely faces as they watch him eat the banana bread they worked so hard on drop onto his tongue and disappears behind his lips. Then he sees Yaser’s stern, but concerned face as he sits with him on the couch and eats dinner in silence. Then he remembers Harry, and Niall, and Louis, and Caroline, and Eleanor, and, yeah, and even Liam, and how they’re waiting for him to come back and be better, happier, weight-restored.

    Then he remembers how much life matters when you’re lying back on the bed wedged between siblings, watching The Little Mermaid for the third time in a row. Then he remembers that Zayn Malik has to live.

    He has to live.

•

    He meets up with Liam before anyone else. It’s well into the second month of being closely monitored at home, Zayn’s up a good ten pounds (if he hadn’t had several setbacks it could’ve been more), and Liam’s warm brown eyes remind him of everything he’s ever wanted.

    “Missed you lots,” Liam tells him as he pulls him into an embrace and tightens his arms around Zayn’s waist. “You look so good, Z. So good.”

    Zayn can feel all his guilt and shame bubbling just beneath the surface; Liam has always been just beneath the surface. “I’m sorry,” he mutters against his shoulder, then again into the warm crook of his neck. He drags his hands up his broad back, keeps them over his shoulder blades. “I’m so sorry for everything. I was selfish. I was really fuckin’ selfish, yeah?”

    Liam pulls back to admire him. His brows are furrowed, face soft. “No,” he breathes. “no, no you weren’t. You were sick. I was selfish, Z. I was stupid and selfish, but I won’t be selfish anymore.” He brings a hand up to cup one slightly-sunken cheek. “Please come back soon. We all miss you. Harry talks about you all the time.”

    Zayn lets himself smile. “Yeah?”

    “Yeah.”

    Liam takes him back to his flat, and Zayn shows him how his hair’s growing back in the places it thinned out, and how the lanugo beginning to go away, and how he can run up a flight of stairs without practically passing out. Then they make some microwave-dinner, sit on Liam’s couch, and share the plate of food while watching some Lifetime movie with brief cuddles in between.

    Wow. This feels right. This feels safe. Zayn lets every bite go down without giving it much (read: _much_ ) thought, and when Liam tightens his grip, or brushes a careful thumb across his arm, Zayn wants to just stay here, in this moment, for a few more days, maybe. He wants to come back, and he wants Liam to visit him on the weekends with fries, and he wants to go in town with his friends again, but he knows he can’t. Not yet.

    But in time he’ll be there. In time everything will work itself out.

    “Wanna stay here the night?” Liam asks him suddenly. “Don’t want you to go. Not yet.” Zayn looks up at him from his spot on his shoulder, looks between each eye before he smiles and nods.

    And here’s to another sleepless night.


End file.
